


(i want to) if it's you

by kunimi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Feelings, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, i really cannot understate how many feelings osamu has, if my atsusuna was sex with feelings this is feelings with sex, miya osamu is a fuckin SAP nobody let him off the hook, osamu is stupid in love for 6k and the author wants to throw him off a bridge for it, osamu: being a good bf. me: that's nice but can u shut up and get ur dick sucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunimi/pseuds/kunimi
Summary: “Wait,” Kiyoomi says unexpectedly, breaking off the kiss. Osamu looks at him curiously. Kiyoomi steps back, pulls Osamu’s pillows closer to the edge of the bed, and then pushes Osamu down against them. “I want to try something.”Osamu watches him in confusion. It isn’t until Kiyoomi drags the rug closer to the edge of the bed that Osamu realises what’s happening, and his eyes widen. That’s nothing on how he feels, though, when Kiyoomi carefully kneels in front of him, settling himself between his legs, and tugs Osamu’s towel loose.or: miya osamu has a lot of feelings, and his boyfriend really wants to give him a blow job.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 95
Collections: 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	(i want to) if it's you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erisabesu (ErisabesuFic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisabesuFic/gifts).



> god, it feels like so long since i've written these two, even though that's objectively not true, ahaha. anyway, this is for eri, who commed me for an omigiri fic ft. sakusa's first attempt at a blowjob!! thank you SO so much, and i really hope you enjoy this!! osamu has so many feelings, it's absolutely ridiculous, but i hope they're something you have fun with ahaha
> 
> special shout out to the omigiri server for putting up with me sprinting or bemoaning osamu's inability to shut up about how much he likes his boyfriend long enough for me to get his dick in sakusa's mouth when _i_ wanted it in, everyone who sprinted with me & extra thanks to jade for reading through the first half of this (back when i thought it was the majority of it lmao) when i got super in my head about it. lots of love to y'all <3

Osamu’s humming to himself, only half-paying attention to the youtube video playing on the television screen—some compilation of Americans squawking about eating live octopus—when he hears the door click.

It’s funny. He couldn’t tell you anything anyone on screen said in the last five minutes, despite the volume blaring, but his ears prick the second the door shifts even slightly. It’s like he’s got a sense for when Kiyoomi’s here.

Because that _is_ Kiyoomi at the door: Osamu can hear it in the way the handle twists, a little further than Osamu ever pushes it, but not quite as forceful; can hear it in the half-beat of stillness before the door opens; can hear it in the slight brush of the door against the wooden floor, never pushed further open than necessary; can hear it in Kiyoomi’s steady footsteps echoing against the floor— _one, two, three._ Pause.

“What are you watching?” Kiyoomi asks.

Osamu shrugs. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, tilting his head to look at his boyfriend. Kiyoomi’s hair is falling into his eyes. His fingers—elegant, precise, make Osamu shiver when they trail across the back of his hand—are carefully pulling at the cord around his ears, unmasking himself. Osamu’s heart beats with a steady fondness. “Some Americans tryna eat somethin’ not dead enough for them. I dunno. Just chucked it on for background noise.”

“Oh?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. The mask is hanging off his fingers now, his face unobscured. He glances at the door, then frowns at Osamu. “You shouldn’t leave the door unlocked.”

Osamu shrugs. “I know it’s going to be you,” he says. _I like that you can come in,_ he thinks. _Walk in like you belong._

_I like that you belong._

“Terrible safety consciousness,” Kiyoomi mutters. He slides his sports bag off his shoulder, tucking it neatly between the wall and Osamu’s television stand. It slips in easily, like a habit, like a routine.

“I mean, I could give you a key,” Osamu says. It’s casual, except for all the ways it’s not.

Kiyoomi pauses. He turns away from his bag, shifting completely to face Osamu. His expression is unreadable as he studies Osamu—a strange phenomenon, because Kiyoomi is one of the most expressive people Osamu has ever met. He’s always liked that about him, actually—how honest he is, in words and self. He’s not open, not _giving,_ but Osamu has never felt like Kiyoomi is trying to hide from him. He likes that.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Kiyoomi says abruptly. Osamu tries not to feel disheartened—he had sort of _dropped_ it on Kiyoomi, after all, and he’s allowed to take time to process it—but he does feel a little off-kilter.

A moment later, he realises Kiyoomi is still looking at him.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Kiyoomi repeats. His eyes are dark, searching. “Do you want to join me?”

Osamu blinks. Then his brain catches up to his body, and he swallows.

“Uh. Yeah,” he says, watching Kiyoomi carefully. “Sure. Can never be too clean, right?”

He’s rambling a little, but Kiyoomi’s lips twitch into a smile anyway.

“No such thing,” Kiyoomi agrees. He reaches out his hand, an uncommon initiation of unnecessary intimacy, and Osamu takes it.

They don’t fall into each other. Instead, Osamu removes his shirt, watches as Kiyoomi tugs his hoodie over his head, folds it up. A moment later, Osamu registers that it’s actually _his_ hoodie—the Inarizaki one he bought a size too big, which looks a little loose on Kiyoomi in the shoulders, but fits snug around his hips—and his mind blanks out for a second. The thought of Kiyoomi coming home from practice in Osamu’s hoodie— _taking_ Osamu’s hoodie, deliberately, just because he wants to wear it—makes something in his chest feel too big to hold.

“Nice hoodie,” he says, smiling a little.

Kiyoomi glances up at him, partway through divesting his trousers. “Do you mind?” he asks, cocking his head.

“Nah,” Osamu says, shaking his head. “I like it when you wear it. Looks better on you.”

Kiyoomi snorts, but lets it slide. He finishes undressing, folding his other clothes—a little less carefully than how he’d folded the hoodie, Osamu can’t help but notice. Fuck. Sakusa Kiyoomi is going to be the death of him.

“I like wearing it,” Kiyoomi says abruptly. He gives Osamu a smile—a rare thing, small and slow. On someone else, Osamu thinks it might be shy. On Kiyoomi, it just looks honest. “It reminds me of you.”

Osamu smiles widely. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. Then he glances down at Osamu’s sweatpants. “Are you planning on showering in those?”

“Oh, right,” Osamu says. Kiyoomi looks like he’s trying not to smile, but he shakes his head, stepping into the shower. Osamu strips quickly, bundling up his clothes to chuck in the corner, but he catches sight of Kiyoomi’s clothes, folded on the edge of the vanity, and pauses. He shakes out his sweatpants and folds them quickly—nothing as neat as Kiyoomi’s, but a little more sightly beside his.

Osamu looks at the sight of their clothes beside each other—Kiyoomi’s neat, but with more care taken for Osamu’s hoodie than anything else; Osamu’s pile a little messier, but trying its best—and doesn’t know what to do with the way his lips are pulling into a smile of their own accord.

So he just opens the door to the shower and steps inside instead.

Kiyoomi is precise in his hygiene routine, so part of Osamu anticipates this to be a brisk affair. Honestly, he’s not sure what to expect. Whatever it was, though, it isn’t the way Kiyoomi looks with suds in his hair, focus written all over his face as he lathers his curls with shampoo.

It’s maybe the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” Osamu says.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says. “Can you tilt the shower head?”

Osamu does one better, and pulls it off the hook, aiming the spray at Kiyoomi’s hair. Kiyoomi obediently leans his head and Osamu rinses out his hair. He puts his spare hand into the mess of curls, running his fingers through them, and grins when Kiyoomi’s breath hitches.

Once the water is running clear, Kiyoomi having scrubbed his hands through his hair too, Osamu reattaches the shower head to the hook. Kiyoomi looks back up. Some of his curls are sticking to his temple. His eyes are darker than usual, but Osamu isn’t sure if it’s just the dimness of the shower or—

He swallows.

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi says, and leans forward, pressing a kiss to Osamu’s lips. There’s water spilling over them, pattering lightly against their hair, running off their shoulders. Osamu doesn’t care. He’s too busy humming against Kiyoomi’s mouth.

Kiyoomi pulls back, and Osamu bites back a whine. The look on Kiyoomi’s face is so unimpressed and _fond_ at the same time that Osamu laughs a little, unable to help himself.

“We have cleaning to do,” Kiyoomi reminds him, then grabs Osamu’s body wash from the shower rack. He squeezes some into his palms, then rubs his hands together, lathering them up. Osamu watches him, just drinking in the sight.

Then Kiyoomi puts his hands on Osamu’s arms, running the soap up and down his body, and – oh. _Oh._

Kiyoomi soaps up his skin, pressing closer to Osamu’s body. It’s… intimate, yes, but surprisingly non-sexual. Osamu feels a little on edge, but it’s mostly from how Kiyoomi looks right now: absolutely determined, hair slicked to his skin, eyes roving over Osamu’s body like he’s committing every inch of him to memory, finding all the spaces he has to take care of.

Osamu presses a kiss to Kiyoomi’s shoulder. He tastes like soap and skin. Osamu does it again.

Kiyoomi lathers a little more soap into his hands, and then gently closes them around Osamu’s dick, which, _wow,_ Osamu had not been expecting.

“Kiyoomi…?” he asks.

“It’s important to clean all parts of your body properly,” Kiyoomi says, and refuses to elaborate. Osamu gives up on protesting, and just tries not to get too horny from Kiyoomi’s apparent new addition to his cleaning routine.

He’s a little hard when they get out of the shower, which he thinks is only to be expected when he’s had his extremely attractive boyfriend carefully cleaning his dick with his hands and soft soap. He genuinely doesn’t think Kiyoomi was trying to do _that,_ but he definitely had _some_ aim in mind. Osamu’s honestly a little confused about what, though.

Osamu slings a towel around his waist and pads into his bedroom. He hears Kiyoomi’s footsteps a moment later, and turns to see he’s also bedecked in only a towel, with their folded clothes in his hands. He places them neatly on the laundry basket, then turns to face Osamu.

Osamu can feel the water dripping down his chest still, but all he does is grab his spare towel and rub it through his hair. He could dry his torso. Maybe even should. But Kiyoomi’s eyes are fixed on it, trailing the droplets of water running down his navel, scanning the way the light gleams on his wet pecs, and, well, Osamu likes that. He likes the look on Kiyoomi’s face right now—likes knowing he’s the focus of it.

It’s not like he cares that much about being attractive—don’t get him wrong, it’s nice, it’s flattering, and he’s not an idiot, he _knows_ he’s generally considered pretty hot. He just doesn’t really care about it when it comes to most people.

But when it’s Kiyoomi looking at him with that look in his eyes, pupils wide and expression hungry, Osamu feels like he’s on fire.

“Like what ya see?” Osamu asks, cocking an eyebrow and a hip at the same time.

“Yes,” Kiyoomi answers, honest as ever. He doesn’t even look embarrassed. Osamu’s heart hurts.

“It’s all yours, baby,” Osamu says. It kind of just… slips out. It’s easy to, in moments like this. Kiyoomi’s face does something complicated—his nose scrunches up, but his eyes get darker.

He steps forward, and hooks his fingers in Osamu’s towel. Tugs Osamu closer to him. Presses his lips against his, their chests following.

Osamu tilts his head, and licks the taste of Kiyoomi’s desire out of his mouth. He drops his hands to Kiyoomi’s waist, resting them there as he moves their lips against each other. He hums against Kiyoomi’s lips, and is gratified with a hitched breath.

“Wait,” Kiyoomi says unexpectedly, breaking off the kiss. Osamu looks at him curiously. Kiyoomi steps back, pulls Osamu’s pillows closer to the edge of the bed, and then pushes Osamu down against them. “I want to try something.”

Osamu watches him in confusion. It isn’t until Kiyoomi drags the rug closer to the edge of the bed that Osamu realises what’s happening, and his eyes widen. That’s nothing on how he feels, though, when Kiyoomi carefully kneels in front of him, settling himself between his legs, and tugs Osamu’s towel loose.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Kiyoomi,” Osamu says. He wants it, obviously—of _course_ he wants it—but Kiyoomi’s never given any indication of this being something he’d find enjoyable.

Kiyoomi pauses. He glances up at Osamu, looks him steadily in the eyes.

“Have you ever given a key to someone before?” he asks.

Osamu blinks. He doesn’t even—what— “No,” he says, finally making sense of the question. “There’s never been anyone I wanted to give one to before.”

Kiyoomi nods thoughtfully. “That’s how I feel about this,” he says. “But I want to. If it’s you.”

Osamu cannot _believe_ that the most romantic thing he’s ever heard is about how Kiyoomi wants to blow him. He also can’t believe that the thing that’s making his heart race most about getting a blowjob is Kiyoomi saying _if it’s you._ God. Sex is hot, but Sakusa Kiyoomi _wanting_ him, in any form he can have him, is completely fucking unparalleled. 

“I—okay,” Osamu says. He swallows. “Just, like, tell me what you need, yeah?”

Kiyoomi gives him another nod, determined this time. “Give any guidance you deem necessary,” he instructs. Osamu swallows a laugh—God, that’s just so _Kiyoomi,_ to approach giving head just like he approaches everything else: completely determined to keep going until he’s finished, until he knows how to do it properly. Osamu’s heart swells with fondness.

“Aight, sure, just—take it slow, okay? Yer a natural at pretty much everythin’, but this can be harder than it seems,” Osamu says. Kiyoomi pauses, and looks up at him judgmentally. Osamu flushes and holds up his hands in defence. “That wasn’t a dick joke!” he says. “I mean, yeah, that’s literally pretty hard right now—” It really is; Osamu’s way more turned on by Kiyoomi’s determined expression than he knows what to do with, “—but also, like, this can be a lot. And I don’t want you to hurt yourself just because, y’know—”

“I want to suck your dick?” Kiyoomi asks dryly.

Osamu groans. “Yeah,” he says, but Kiyoomi quirks a smile at him.

“You’re cute when you do this,” he says. He looks down at Osamu’s dick, and wraps his hands around it.

“Do what? Worry about over-exerting yerself because of blow jobs?” Osamu grumbles. He can feel himself thickening in Kiyoomi’s hands, which are moving carefully up and down his dick. “Bit specific.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says, leaning down to rest his lips over the head of Osamu’s dick. His breath plays against the skin, and Osamu shivers. Kiyoomi glances up, looking through his eyelashes, and it’s the single hottest fucking thing Osamu has _ever_ seen. “Take care of people. Be considerate. You do it a lot, even when people don’t deserve it, or are – difficult. I’ve never met anyone else who wants to go out of their way to make things easier for people like you do. Who would want to make things harder for themselves just to help out someone difficult.”

Osamu blinks, and Kiyoomi presses a soft kiss to the head of Osamu’s dick. It makes Osamu breathe in, hard, but his mind is fixed on Kiyoomi’s words. Kiyoomi is still experimentally jacking him off, but now he dips out his tongue and laps at the head of Osamu’s dick. Fuck.

He’s swirling his tongue around the tip, alternating between using his tongue like a muscle and taking little kitten licks—which are _really_ fucking cute, what the fuck—when Osamu clears his throat.

“You’re not difficult,” he says, frowning a little, which isn’t that easy when he’s got the prettiest person he knows on his knees in front of him, lapping at the head of his dick.

Kiyoomi gives him an incredulous look. “I’m the textbook definition of difficult,” he says, pulling back slightly. There’s a wry expression on his face—mostly resolute, pragmatic, but there’s the tiniest twist of resignation at the edge of his lips that Osamu hates. “It’s fine. You don’t have to spare my feelings or anything. I don’t care about being called difficult. It’s just the truth.”

Osamu leans forward, puts his hand in Kiyoomi’s hair. Strokes it.

“I mean, you’re not difficult to me,” he says softly.

Kiyoomi’s eyes go wide, staring up at him. Drinking him in, maybe, or scanning his expression for any half-truths. Osamu means it, though. Kiyoomi has high standards and is never afraid to enforce his boundaries, and sometimes he arches away from people like a particularly unforgiving cat, but Osamu wouldn’t change any of it.

He _likes_ Kiyoomi. Likes how his nose wrinkles when he’s disgusted, likes how exasperated he gets about people, likes how his expression softens when he’s meeting a dog. Likes that he’s selective, because it means so much more that he _chose_ Osamu. Likes the way he leans into Osamu’s touch, likes the way Kiyoomi is looking right now, expression set in determination, eyes shining a little.

He likes Kiyoomi a lot.

“You’re impossible,” Kiyoomi sighs fondly.

“Pretty sure that’s worse than difficult,” Osamu points out, grinning a little. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to ignore you now,” he announces, but there’s a smile tugging at the edges of his lips as he does. Something blooms in Osamu’s chest at the sight. Affection, maybe.

Kiyoomi resumes his movements, closing his hand firmly around Osamu’s dick. He jacks him off around the base, experimenting with tightness of grip. Then he ducks his head and, with absolutely _no_ warning, takes the tip of Osamu’s dick into his mouth.

Osamu whistles a breath through his teeth. He’s had blow jobs before, and it’s not like Kiyoomi’s doing anything specific, technique-wise—though he’s currently sucking at the head of Osamu’s dick with a focused expression that’s making Osamu’s brain go crazy—but he just feels so reactive right now. Like Kiyoomi has left him sensitive, tender, raw, and any little simulation is enough to make him feel a little off-kilter.

It’s not his first blow job, but it _is_ Kiyoomi’s, and something about that can’t stop echoing in Osamu’s head.

He remembers Kiyoomi saying to give guidance, so he tugs lightly in Kiyoomi’s hair. He just wants to get his attention, to make sure he doesn’t surprise him, but Kiyoomi lets out a little growl, and Osamu just – _freezes._

That… was really fucking hot.

“Uh,” Osamu says, trying to locate his brain. “You can – pull harder, if you want? Grip tighter. And unless you straight up just gnaw at it, it’s pretty hard to like. Hurt me.”

Kiyoomi looks up at him in amusement, pulling off. There’s a nice _pop_ noise when he does, and there’s a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to Osamu’s dick. What the fuck.

“I know you like biting, but…” Kiyoomi trails off. He hasn’t broken the strand of saliva yet, and his lips are redder than usual. Tender. Osamu feels like he’s going fucking insane.

“I mean, don’t bite it off,” Osamu says, “but. I mean. Yeah. Teeth… Teeth are fine.”

Kiyoomi looks at him thoughtfully. Osamu can’t figure out a way to say that the idea of Kiyoomi’s teeth grazing his dick makes his entire body feel like a livewire.

“Teeth are fine,” Kiyoomi echoes. Osamu nods, then gasps when Kiyoomi bobs down and envelops the head of his dick. Goddammit. One second, they’re just having a nice, polite conversation about… the appropriate use of teeth in blow jobs, and the next, all Osamu can feel is the hot warmth of Kiyoomi’s mouth as he desperately tries to stop himself from thrusting up in surprise.

He doesn’t manage to stop completely and ends up bucking slightly, shoving his dick further into Kiyoomi’s mouth. Kiyoomi makes a slight choking noise, and Osamu panics for a second, but Kiyoomi’s breathing evens out. He doesn’t even pull off, just keeps his position.

“Fuck,” Osamu curses, letting his head fall back onto the pillows. He tilts himself back up, and stares down at his boyfriend, half-amazed, half-exasperated. “Warn a guy, wouldja?”

Kiyoomi hums in response.

“Try to breathe through your nose,” Osamu instructs, wracking his brain for any way to make this easier for Kiyoomi. “I think that’ll help. Also, sorry,” he tacks on, suddenly realising he’d forgotten to say before. “About the…” He gestures helplessly. “You took me by surprise.”

Honestly, he feels like he sounds ridiculous, but Kiyoomi’s eyes just narrow in concentration. A moment later, he’s sinking further down on Osamu’s dick, which, what the fuck, Kiyoomi, what sort of beginner—

And then he’s grazing his teeth lightly against the side of Osamu’s dick, dragging them over the soft skin, and Osamu swears.

“Fuckin’ hell, Kiyoomi,” he says, voice going a little hoarse. He wants to put his hands in Kiyoomi’s hair again, but he’s a little worried Kiyoomi will do that again and he’ll just lose his mind – shove Kiyoomi’s head down on instinct – and that’s a pretty picture, Kiyoomi taking it all the way down to the base, Osamu’s head is going wild, but that’s _not_ what he wants to do, not for Kiyoomi’s first time.

So, out of lack of other options, he starts groping his own chest.

He massages his pecs with his hands, one on each, clutching at them. They’re softer now – have a bit more give than when he was focusing on volleyball, a bit more movement. He doesn’t think he’s actually less fit—if anything, he has to do more work now than he ever did for Inarizaki—but his body is more focused on core strength than speed now, which has led to some… _developments_ in his torso. Specifically, his chest.

He squeezes his skin, pressing down hard enough to hurt a little, just to stave the edge off the effect Kiyoomi’s mouth is having on him. He palms at his right pectoral, tweaks the nipple of his left. Rubs it, rolls it between his fingers. They’re rougher than Kiyoomi’s—Osamu puts it down to his moisturising routine, because Osamu was a wing spiker once, okay, and his hands have _never_ been as smooth as Kiyoomi’s, which are firm but not _rough_ —but Osamu can imagine it’s Kiyoomi’s fingers rolling his nipple – can imagine it’s Kiyoomi indulging himself, exploring Osamu’s chest to his heart’s content.

Osamu knows, after all, that Kiyoomi likes his chest. It’s in the way Kiyoomi looks at him, the way his eyes fall to the swell of his pecs sometimes, but it’s also in the way Kiyoomi nestles against Osamu’s chest, resting his head in the shallow valley of Osamu’s pecs and humming in contentment.

He thinks about Kiyoomi’s mouth around his cock, the wet heat of it, and imagines those lips latched onto the skin of his chest. Kiyoomi drags his teeth lightly along the sides of Osamu’s dick again, bobbing slightly up and down, and Osamu thinks about those teeth gently clamping around his nipple, and lets out a low groan.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to the Kiyoomi in his head, sucking at his chest, or the Kiyoomi in front of him, sucking at his cock. He’s not sure it matters, though. Kiyoomi’s always the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, whether he’s scrunching up his nose at Bokuto’s best attempt at cooking or sleepily entwining his hands with Osamu’s.

Or on his knees in front of him, bobbing on his dick, eyebrows knit in determination. God. It’s such a cute expression, but the overall picture is unquestionably fucking hot, and the effect it’s having on Osamu is – wow.

“I can’t believe you,” Osamu says, tilting his body upright yet again. He lets his hands fall from exploring his own body, anchoring them in Kiyoomi’s hair instead. Kiyoomi makes a pleased noise around Osamu’s dick, which causes it to twitch in Kiyoomi’s mouth. There’s a slight choking noise again, but Kiyoomi recovers quickly, readjusting slightly and moving his tongue to make space for Osamu’s new position. Osamu would be more embarrassed about being so reactive if Kiyoomi wasn’t making the _hottest_ fucking sounds in response. He’d never really thought that the idea of someone choking on his dick was that hot before, but the sound of _Kiyoomi_ choking around it, and determinedly sticking it out and readjusting instead of moving off to give himself a break? Holy shit. This is an awakening.

“Your first blow job, and you just…” Osamu continues. He runs his hands through Kiyoomi’s hair, tugging lightly at the curls. “I know I said yer a natural at pretty much everything, but this is somethin’ else.”

Kiyoomi’s expression goes carefully blank for a second, and Osamu squints. Then Kiyoomi descends fully down his cock, dragging his teeth and breathing slowly through his nose, until his mouth has fully enveloped the base. His nose is buried in Osamu’s hair. His cheeks have hollowed. His tongue is pressed against the walls of Osamu’s dick. He is distinctly _not_ choking.

Osamu feels like he’s going to explode. It’s like there’s lightning coursing through his skin, burning him up from within, and the only thing anchoring him to the moment is Kiyoomi’s mouth on him, the scorching tenderness where lips meet skin. Ironically, it’s also the thing that makes him feel so on edge.

He can’t help it. He thrusts up into Kiyoomi’s mouth. There’s nothing more to shove in, but his hips buck anyway, moving on instinct, pressing up against Kiyoomi’s face.

“Shit shit _shit,”_ he gasps, tightening his grip in his boyfriend’s hair. “You – I – _fuckin’ hell, Kiyoomi_ …”

At that, Kiyoomi moves to pull off Osamu’s dick. Osamu loosens his grip, but keeps his hands buried in Kiyoomi’s hair. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he lets go. Dissolve, probably.

He’s _so_ close. There’s no words for how insanely fucking hot he finds watching his dick slowly emerge from Kiyoomi’s mouth, the skin flushed and slick. Kiyoomi’s lips are red, looking a little raw around the edges. There’s a droplet of saliva on his lower lip. Then his tongue darts out and wipes it away. Osamu groans.

The head of his cock is wet with saliva and precome, and Osamu genuinely feels like he could come just from Kiyoomi kissing the tip at this point. Objectively, he knows that, skill-wise, this isn’t the best blow job he’s ever had. After all, it’s literally Kiyoomi’s first one, and while he’s done incredibly, in Osamu’s extremely unbiased opinion, his movements definitely lack the practiced ease some of Osamu’s previous partners have demonstrated.

None of that really seems to matter, though. Not to his dick. He feels as reactive as if it was _his_ first blow job too, and he can’t work out if it’s because the fact that it’s Kiyoomi’s first attempt is doing a serious number on him, or if it’s just the fact that it’s _Kiyoomi_ doing it at all. It’s probably some combination of both. He has no idea how to even begin unpacking that.

“What else?” Kiyoomi asks expectantly. 

Osamu huffs a weak laugh, twists his fingers in Kiyoomi’s hair so he can stroke it fondly instead of just gripping it.

“You’re impossible,” he says. His voice sounds funny to his own ears—so full of amused affection that it almost hurts to listen to. It’s the kind of voice that makes Kiyoomi clutch Osamu’s arm in secondhand embarrassment and duck his head to avoid the screen when they’re watching shitty rom-coms together—Osamu’s choice, obviously—but here it is, coming from Osamu’s own mouth, directed at Kiyoomi himself. And Kiyoomi’s rolling his eyes at Osamu, sure, but they’re crinkling at the corners, and there’s a smile tugging at the edges of his lips, like he can’t help himself. Like he’s got just as much swelling in his chest as Osamu does.

God. Osamu l—

Osamu likes him so much.

“That’s my line,” Kiyoomi says, and Osamu can’t help it; he leans forward and tilts Kiyoomi’s head up to press a kiss against Kiyoomi’s lips, soft and sweet. Kiyoomi smiles into the kiss, and Osamu thinks for a moment about how rare it is, to know so many of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s smiles. How precious it is, to know all the different ways they spring to his lips. To know the way they taste.

“What was that for?” Kiyoomi asks once they separate.

“Felt like it,” Osamu says, shrugging. “Can’t I kiss my boyfriend when I feel like it?”

Kiyoomi does that _thing_ he does whenever Osamu says _boyfriend_ —his nose scrunches up, but his eyes go soft, and there’s a sudden flush of colour to his cheeks, which are already redder than usual from the exertion. It’s kind of like a shiver goes through him. Osamu never tires of seeing it—never tires of seeing how much it affects Kiyoomi, the idea of being each other’s. Part of him never wants it to change, but part of him thinks the only thing that could be better would be if their togetherness settles into Kiyoomi as such an intrinsic truth that he no longer reacts at all. It makes Osamu a little crazy sometimes, thinking about what they might be one day, thinking about how all their future dreams could someday become shared memories, but he’s not in any rush. He likes that he doesn’t know everything about Kiyoomi yet, and vice versa. He likes that they have so much to learn about each other, so many chances to explore and indulge.

Like right now, apparently.

“You can,” Kiyoomi allows. “But you also look like you’re feeling something else.” He gives Osamu’s dick—still standing to attention—a pointed glance, as if Osamu could somehow have forgotten how aroused he was.

“That keen on it, huh?” Osamu teases.

Kiyoomi meets his eyes evenly. “I like to finish what I start,” he says, his voice low. It hits Osamu right in the gut, and his dick _twitches_ , much to his mortification.

“Don’t say anythin’,” Osamu warns, then glances down at the rug Kiyoomi’s kneeling on. “How are your knees, though?”

“They’re fine,” Kiyoomi says brusquely. “Though I might try it with kneepads next time,” he admits.

Osamu suddenly imagines Kiyoomi fully kitted out in his MSBY uniform, knee pads and all, leaning down in front of him, sucking at his dick after a match like it’s a bottle of Pocari Sweat.

Okay, wow, he really needs to come or analyse his feelings about the sexual uses for sports drinks or something, because this is getting out of hand.

“Could be a good experiment,” Osamu agrees, voice hoarse. “Scientific, you know. Try everything.”

“Mmhmm,” Kiyoomi hums, eyeing him with amusement.

“Though. There are. Uh. Other positions we could try,” Osamu says. “That might be easier on the knees. I’ll show you, if you want.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You can show me later. But first – I wasn’t kidding. I mean to finish what I start.” He shifts slightly, moving a little closer to the edge of the bed, still settled between Osamu’s legs. He looks up at Osamu expectantly. “So. What else?”

Osamu has the most aggravating, wonderful, beautiful, determined boyfriend ever, and he’s probably going to be the death of him.

“I’m pretty close,” Osamu admits, which is probably an understatement, but he has no way of explaining exactly _how_ close he feels without getting into how he basically worked himself up by thinking of how much he likes Kiyoomi. “So, uh – I’ll give you a heads up. As for things you can do…” Osamu wracks his brain. “You can use your hands? Just… pretty much anywhere to make it easier.”

Kiyoomi glances down at Osamu’s crotch, an assessing look on his face. It makes Osamu’s face hot.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says. “You ready?”

 _No,_ Osamu thinks.

“For you? Any time,” he says instead, managing a cheeky grin. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes—one of Osamu’s favourite expressions on him—but drops his head, swirling his tongue around the tip. He moves lower, enveloping the tip with his mouth, and lightly bobbing up and down, never moving more than two inches. Then he hollows his cheeks and _sucks_ , and Osamu swears lightly.

“Fuck, baby, you feel – you look – ” Osamu breaks off, groaning a little as Kiyoomi takes him in deeper. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say. Hot? Gorgeous? Completely fucking unfair? They’re all true. Kiyoomi’s face is flushed, his lips looking redder than usual, stretched around Osamu’s cock. His hair is mussed from Osamu’s constant interference, more a mop of unruly curls than anything else, and certainly not up to Kiyoomi’s usually groomed standards. His eyes are maybe the most captivating of all, dark and intent on his task, framed by his lashes and narrowed in focus.

“You look _so_ pretty, it’s unfair, how the fuck is anyone meant to cope? You’re taking it so well, oh my god, and you look so good, going down on my cock like that,” Osamu babbles, barely paying attention to what he’s saying. All he knows is the wet heat of Kiyoomi’s mouth, the exquisite drag of his teeth as he sinks lower down Osamu’s dick, and the way Kiyoomi’s fingers are searing into his skin – one, two, three points against his hip, burning like a brand. Like his presence is a mark Osamu will never be able to scrub from his skin.

 _Good,_ he thinks, a delirious half-thought. _I want it to always feel like this._

Kiyoomi takes him in deeper, almost to the base again, and Osamu’s elbow almost buckles from where he’d lodged it against the bed. He forces himself more upright, trying to move slowly so he doesn’t accidentally choke Kiyoomi, and manages to sit in a self-supporting position. He shifts his hands, threading his fingers through Kiyoomi’s curls again, letting them tug tight. The sound of Kiyoomi’s growl is still ringing in his ears. Osamu wants to hear it again, so he tugs experimentally.

Not only does Kiyoomi growl again, he clamps down harder, both lips and teeth. There’s a little sting to it, but mostly it feels so _fucking good_ that Osamu can’t help the guttural moan that falls out of his mouth.

It turns into a squeak a moment later, when Kiyoomi’s hand—the one not anchored to Osamu’s hip—cups his balls, massaging them lightly.

With Kiyoomi’s lips almost to the base of his dick, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sides, and Kiyoomi’s hand rubbing at his balls, Osamu feels faint. Everything has been building, first slow and steady, and now it’s rising through him, coming to a crest.

“Kiyoomi,” he manages, tugging a little at Kiyoomi’s hair to get his attention. “I’m – I’m gonna come, it’s – ”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t pull off, just hums around Osamu’s cock, almost like he’s trying to say something. It doesn’t matter. The extra vibrations are the last thing Osamu needs, and it pushes him over the edge.

He comes with a cry, Kiyoomi’s name on his lips.

And Kiyoomi fucking _swallows_ it. There’s a choking noise, maybe Kiyoomi dealing with the first of Osamu’s come, but just like he did earlier with Osamu’s dick, he recovers quickly and sticks to his guns. He keeps his position as Osamu finishes spurting down his throat, swallowing it all.

Once Osamu’s finished, Kiyoomi slowly drags his mouth up Osamu’s cock. It’s sensitive, and Osamu winces a little, but Kiyoomi looks so satisfied with how clean it looks once he’s pulled back and looking at it that Osamu can’t even bring himself to mind.

He flops backwards onto the pillows, feeling completely spent. He wasn’t even the one doing the _work._ At that thought, he lifts his head to look at Kiyoomi.

“C’mere,” he says, a touch of sleepiness to his voice. He gestures uselessly—when did he even let go of Kiyoomi’s hair, what the fuck?—towards himself, wanting Kiyoomi to come close.

“I should brush my teeth,” Kiyoomi says, but he unfolds himself from the floor and sits on the bed beside Osamu anyway.

“Later,” Osamu says, reaching up to Kiyoomi’s face. He cups his jaw gently. “How’s your mouth feel?”

Kiyoomi’s expression turns considering. “A little achy,” he decides. “It’s fine. How’s your dick feel?”

“Really fucked out,” Osamu says, laughing, before sobering up. “Your jaw’s probably going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow,” he warns. “Knees too, even with the rug. Maybe your throat too.”

He splays his hand a little wider across Kiyoomi’s cheek and jaw, and Kiyoomi leans into his touch.

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi says. “I’ll deal with it. I’ve got an endless supply of salonpas, after all,” he says dryly, and Osamu snorts.

“I would _love_ to see how the team reacts to you using salonpas on yer fuckin’ _jaw_ ,” he hoots, and Kiyoomi scrunches his nose at him.

“I’m subtle enough not to do it in front of them,” he says indignantly.

Osamu looks at him fondly. “You’re a lot of things, Kiyoomi, and I wouldn’t change any of ‘em, but subtle ain’t one of ‘em,” he says, grinning.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, but he flushes. “All right, fine—well, I’ll just tell them your brother misserved and hit me in the face or something,” he grumbles. It’s cute when he gets like this. Grumbly. It reminds Osamu a little of when a cat curls into your side, refusing to acknowledge your presence, but immediately gets underfoot if you try to leave.

It probably says something about him that he likes that so much, but he doesn’t really care what. All it means, really, is that even if Kiyoomi doesn’t want to curl up to most people, he wants to curl up to Osamu, and that’s all that matters to him.

“Sounds like a plan,” Osamu says, using his spare hand to take one of Kiyoomi’s and press a kiss to his knuckles.

Kiyoomi smiles briefly, then pauses, like a thought occurred to him.

“What’s up?” Osamu prompts.

“You really wouldn’t change anything?” Kiyoomi asks curiously. He doesn’t sound uncertain, or self-deprecating—more like he’s genuinely curious. Maybe even a little bit surprised.

Osamu doesn’t think Kiyoomi would want to change for anyone, at least not anything big about himself, so he’s not worried about that motivation, but something about the question still tears at his chest.

“Nah,” Osamu says. He looks steadily at Kiyoomi. “I like _you._ I want you. Just like this.” He laces their fingers together, and Kiyoomi drops his gaze to their entwined grasp.

“Some might say you have questionable taste,” Kiyoomi says wryly.

“Don’t tell anyone this, ‘cause it’s probably not a great look for business, but I don’t really give a fuck what any of them think,” Osamu confides. He grins. “Like, I’m not ‘Tsumu, I don’t really want any of them to hate me or anythin’, but that’s as far as it goes. You and me isn’t anyone else’s business, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it. ‘Sides, plenty of people probably think _you_ have questionable taste. I mean, superstar athlete Sakusa Kiyoomi, absolute shoo-in for the national team, dating a humble onigiri seller? Something doesn’t add up there,” he teases.

Kiyoomi frowns at him. “Anyone who thinks that just doesn’t know you,” he says dismissively. Osamu’s not insecure about their relationship or his occupation, but it warms his heart regardless. “Also, humble?” Kiyoomi teases. “Who asked me if I was ‘that keen’ on his dick earlier, hm?”

Osamu groans. “Of course you remember that,” he mutters.

“I remember a lot,” Kiyoomi informs him. “Including a certain monologue about how pretty I looked going down on you.”

Osamu draws his hand back from Kiyoomi’s jaw to drag it over his eyes in embarrassment. “That just… kind of came out, didn’t it?” he mumbled.

Kiyoomi hums. “It’s okay,” he says. “I liked it.”

Osamu peeks through his fingers. “Really?”

Kiyoomi nods. “I like your voice,” he says. “Words and sounds.”

Osamu chooses to ignore how he can feel his cheeks flushing at that. “I meant it, you know. You looked really pretty. Then again, you always do.”

Kiyoomi’s cheeks flush this time. “Impossible,” he says, but it’s fond.

“That’s me,” Osamu says agreeably. A thought occurs to him, and he glances down at Kiyoomi’s lap. His towel has come completely dislodged, and Osamu meets his eyes. “Did you want me to take care of you too?” he asks. It’s good manners, after all, and it’s not like Osamu would _mind._ In fact, he’d be extremely down.

“Later,” Kiyoomi says unexpectedly. He looks down at the pillows Osamu is lying against. “I want to just lie with you for a bit first.”

God. Fuck. If that isn’t the most endearing thing Osamu’s ever heard.

“We can do that,” he says, smiling softly. He twists his legs, pulling them onto the bed, and reaches out to Kiyoomi, who lets himself sink into Osamu’s embrace. Kiyoomi sighs contentedly, draping his head on Osamu’s chest, and Osamu wraps his arms around him.

“I really need to brush my teeth,” Kiyoomi mutters.

“Later,” Osamu says. “Besides, I read that come is good for your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Kiyoomi warns, and Osamu bursts into laughter. A moment later, he feels Kiyoomi smirk against his chest.

“All right, Kiyoomi,” Osamu agrees. “Anythin’ for ya.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Kiyoomi threatens, but he sounds tired, and it softens his words a bit.

“Okay,” Osamu agrees. “Please do.” He presses a kiss to Kiyoomi’s forehead, smiling against his skin.

He’ll repay the favour, he decides. Maybe show Kiyoomi some of those other positions he was talking about. Give him the key he has nestled in his drawer, waiting for it to come up. _And remind him to brush his teeth,_ he thinks in a fond huff. But later. He wants to soak in the feeling of Kiyoomi relaxing in his arms first. 

They’ve got time for all the other stuff later.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/) or my [nsfw twt!](https://twitter.com/KUNlKAGE/)
> 
> the twt post for this fic is [here!](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/status/1353397646354915328?s=20)
> 
> i hope you enjoyed!!


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